RSC LORE – Excerpt 1 – Anwar’s Oddity

For more information on RSC, visit the RSC page.

An introduction to the RSC LORE series

Most of the work I have done for RSC will never be seen. My current compendium to the work takes the form of a giant offline wiki. While the wiki is brimming with information, much of it I’ve compressed into bullets points.

The RSC LORE series is my attempt to translate parts of the wiki into interesting excerpts, short stories, and more (there are almost no limits to what this “more” can mean). Once I have posted three or four entries, I’ll create a section in the RSC page that acts a node for all the RSC LORE series.

This first entry is very short. Expect the subsequent to be longer.


RSC LORE – Excerpt 1 – Anwar’s Oddity

The following is an excerpt from the introduction of Draena Hil Kaen’s “Anwar’s Oddity,” 0305DT.


I do not ween phasmid nor lumvine curious.

The beggar against the cascade in Midstwood, the Red Flower macerating skulls neath her Red Hall, the Cliffer braving the Traders’ Sea — these are inhabitants queer.

We obtrude from good soil.

We are Anwar’s oddity.

Draena of Bulwark

Comprehend that I am no objective being, no cosmic watcher. Comprehend that this tome is merely the narrative of my mortal travels, ‘tween all her curves and corners.

I was born in an inkstool shack but a shout south of the magnificent Storm Wall. As was the method of my forebearers, I tended each day to the culture, my hands black and dreams sodden, my yearning a subdued and secret thing.

Came to Bulwark one stygian morn a sportive minstrel. Through the pinewood streets of the lower district, he warbled, painting into my itching mind the tale of his adventure.

I’d never have learnt to read and write if I hadn’t — while the minstrel kept the dressmake’s attention — pilfered that sack of palisc fifths. I’d never have danced and broken clay with the savages of Khag, freed slaves from the quarries of Pit, gutted rustspine on the rocks of the Eye, nor found tenderness in the silence of these greenwoods…

I fled alone, with but the helt and fur on my back. I fled alone, an exile of fourteen.

I’ve helped when I could bear to help and taken help fervently.

I’ve fought and I’ve flown.

I’ve learnt more than most exiles ever will. And I sit here with a scrap of paper and the ink I once bottled to share it with you.


© 2019 Nicholas Stephen Petrou ABN 95 728 609 173. All rights reserved.

Feature image font credit — MORIA CITADEL by Russ Herschler © 2002 – DragonFang

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